Greg Egan pt. 2

Dear Diarrhea,

I will continue discussing the interconnected short stories of Greg Egan today.

Last time, I talked about Learning to Be Me, which discusses the merits of and the questions regarding identity raised by the Ndoli device. As outlined in last weeks post, this device follows the neural activity of the biological brain from birth onwards, creating a perfect duplicate that can take the place of the brain without any external signs of change. This week's post will be about the short story Closer, in which the Ndoli device is not itself the object of scrutiny, but rather a mere facilitator of an otherwise impossible experiment.

As with many of Egan's short stories, the plot of Closer depends on concepts whose explanation is focal to the development of tension, leading to text that is more like an internal monologue than a conventional plot-driven storytelling narrative. The focal issue being discussed is the question of perception and consciousness, and whether it is possible or desirable to truly understand someone else's perspective--if such even exists. For the reader to understand the weight of this solipsistic notion and the necessity of the solution process in which, among others, the Ndoli device plays a significant role, the narrator has to outline his inner struggle through a whole lifetime leading up to the relationship in which the chance for resolution finally surfaces.

The narrator's relationship with a woman is completely altered by a chance to meet her consciousness halfway--through an experimental technique involving the modulation of the Ndoli devices, two identical gender-neutral extras (empty human bodies) and two identical rooms, two people can share the exact same experience for eight hours. Their devices are altered so that the consciousness experiencing those eight hours is exactly halfway between the two participants' individual consciousnesses. To the narrator, this carries great impact because while it doesn't completely give him someone else's perspective, it gives him a perspective other than that of his own--or rather, as the narration of the eight hours implies, a perspective both of his own and of his girlfriend's.

In the end, though, it is posited that intimate and thorough knowledge on the level of immediate thoughts is disruptive, if not to all relationships, then certainly to the kind, such as the one between the narrator and his girlfriend, that is built on the enjoyment of mystery. This may seem a redundant statement, of course, but I think that the enjoyment of mystery can be translated comfortably as the quest towards intimate knowledge--once the quest has been fulfilled, the relationship has reached its natural end.

I guess that's it for today. Until next time, I'm unreservedly yours,
-Márton Körtesi.